POETRY & WORDS :: Yes, she is my only one

As much as I share here in this public space, there’s much, much more I don’t talk about.

For a long time, Aveline was young enough that I didn’t have to talk about it. For a long time, her age served as some sort of barrier to postpone the questions and contain the curiosity. But as Aveline has gotten older, peoples’ curiosity is stretched thinner and thinner and thinner. The manners are starting to fade, and the collective curiosity is like a wall of water behind a crumbling dam.

On any given day there are fewer and fewer people left who consider the when? and the why? behind her sibling-less status as private information.

I have an only child.

I’m homeschooling an only child.

And I’ve never been more acutely aware of the stigma in those sentences, or how many sets of neatly-boxed little assumptions exist about this fact.

I’m not here to defend anything.

I’m not here to explain a choice. My redemption lies in my Jesus, not in the number of people in my family.

Instead, I’m here to gently remind you that before you judge someone’s choice, remember that we humans don’t even always hold the power of a choice.

I’m here to remind the curious questioners that in almost every situation under the sun, there’s more. More beneath the surface. More desperate clinging to hope where you think there’s just indifferent apathy. There’s more to a family than the sum of their numbers. There may be sorrow behind the smile. There may be silent prayers that go unseen. There’s always more to the story than you’ve heard.

What you don’t know, is that my daughter Aveline Alenka was a miracle. Her name, Aveline, from the old Irish Aibhilin, isn’t just a name. It means —

l o n g e d f o r w i s h e d f o rl o n g – a w a i t e d c h i l d

— and every ounce of that is true.

She is a miracle. She is, like her Slovene middle name Alenka, “a radiant light”.

See, what you don’t know, is that when I was in my early twenties, my hormones were operating at a menopausal level. What you don’t know, is that I was looked right in the eye and told my body was the functional equivalent of a sixty-year-old woman.

You don’t know this, because I don’t talk about this.

When my long-awaited child was born, it was four weeks before I could cross the room without holding onto the walls.

You don’t know this, because I don’t talk about this.

When she was six weeks old, I was back in the emergency room, with a group of doctors huddled around me while she was asleep on my chest and I was in agony.

You don’t know this, because I don’t talk about this.

When she was two years old, I was sitting in a specialist’s office discussing the ongoing pain from nerve damage.

You don’t know this, because I don’t talk about this.

I’m not telling you now because it’s an easy or a comfortable thing to talk about (it’s not). I don’t tell you this because I think I am particularly tragic, or unusual (it’s not), or because I think my story is deserving of either pity or applause (it isn’t). And I’m certainly not writing this because I think it’s good blog fodder (it definitely isn’t).

I’m not even sharing this now because of me.

I’m sharing this because there’s more to all of our stories. There’s more to what we say and what we do and who we are. There’s more to all of us than what is visible to supermarket strangers and inquisitive acquaintances.

I’m not writing this about me. I’m really not even writing this about only children.

I’m writing this for every single person God has ever created, from every walk of life and every nation and every socioeconomic status. I’m writing this for every single person you come into contact with.

I’m writing this because of one truth, one constant, one vitally important principle: everyone has a story. Sometimes that story is silent, and sometimes it’s spoken. Sometimes you can see a peek of it, and sometimes it’s all hidden. But there’s one thing that never changes…

…there’s always more to the story than you can see.

“The world is full of love that goes unspoken. It doesn’t mean that it is felt less deeply or that separation leaves a cleaner wound. Its beauty…and its pain are in its silence. Some of us are not blessed with revelations or confessions. Love cannot be spoken, only shown.” -Call the Midwife

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5 thoughts on “POETRY & WORDS :: Yes, she is my only one”

My loving heart longs for me to hug you, Gina! Your Aveline is bright, beautiful and knows Jesus. That adds up to much joy, I can tell from the various lovely photos and accounts of your family time, dear Gina. I am so happy you have such a delightful child. Jesus has blessed you; she is your gift. Each time i see one of her pictures I smile and long to pat her cheek and hug her! Love and prayers, Gram Audrey

Such a poignant and loving post. One of the things I have found with my own blogging, is that although we are very private people, as time goes on we start to share far more of us than we ever intended. With vulnerability and openness comes a freedom, a connection, and an appreciation from others for the truth of who we are.
I have just one daughter, and I always tell her to that everyone has a story; they are all different, and important in different ways, but we all have them, so don’t judge until you know who someone really is.
Thank you for sharing such a precious part of your story … your daughter is beautiful.
– Wendy

I'm Gina Munsey, a Jesus-lover and a sojourner; a weaver of words, anchored in hope. I am Mexico-born, Eastern Europe-raised missionary kid who ended up being a Californian in Franklin/Nashville, Tennessee. I live my days full of coffee and adventures while my 9-year-old learns Mandarin Chinese and my artist-husband creates worlds from pixels and light. I'm an editor, a magazine contributor, and a writer who has only completed four chapters of my languishing manuscript. On any given day, you can find me in the middle of [home]school surrounded by stacks and stacks of books. Oh, and the name of this blog? Oaxaca -- wuh-HA-kuh -- is in Southern Mexico, where I was born! (See full bio).